


as subtle as a Uruguayan

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FIFA World Cup 2018, French Characters, M/M, Prayer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-24 01:50:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15619839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: They are not so subtle as they think.





	as subtle as a Uruguayan

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies in advance for mucking up _Salat al-maghrib_ in this. If the mistake is horrendously erroneous, please, please, please hit me with a clue by four and I'll change it. 
> 
> Thanks!

"Of course they don't know," Antoine slurred, his arms around Paul's neck, his breath a warm curl in his ear. "No one knows, _mon ami_ " his laughter warm and loopy and drunk. "As sure as I'm Uruguayan," he finished.

Paul curled his arm around Antoine's waist, tugging him so that their sides were flush against each other, as if in the midst of a salsa cuddle. Around them, everyone in high spirits, because they were in Russia, and through the group stages without a loss. 

Yes, they came away from the Denmark game with a draw, and yes, it should rankle, but.

Paul looked at his teammate, and shook his head with the sympathetic mood of at someone who was extremely poorly. "You aren't Uruguayan, mate. I'm more English than you are Uruguayan," he shook his head, with a rueful frown. "And I'll never be English. Even more so now."

"You speak English."

Paul could only shake his head again, but with a wry smile this time. Antoine, with his bright eyes and winning grin. He loved him - he couldn't not love him - but Antoine was as daft as a brush sometimes.

"Anyway," Antoine dismissed Paul's comments with a wave, oblivious to the party around them. 

Varane and Giroud around the computer, armed with small and powerful speakers as they partied. Hell, they got through the group stage without losing a match, it was time. Samuel and Benji tripping to the latest French hip hop, Kante leaning against the wall, drink in hand, looking on. "Any - WAY," he repeated, smushing his palms against Paul's cheeks, and everything a haze but _Antoine, Antoine, Antoine._ "Come."

***

"Hallo," and this was Hugo the next morning, elegant and quiet in his way, greeting Paul with a warm smile. "Are you okay? Samuel said that you left the party early last night," he stopped, a vertical line of worry between his eyebrows. "Is everything ---"

"Everything's fine, capitan," Paul answered, biting his lips against the grin that threatened to split his face in two. Antoine had dragged him away, and jumped on him as soon as their room doors clicked shut.

"Okay," Hugo nodded, not convinced. "if you're ..."

"I'm fine."

***

"Subtle, of course we're subtle," Antoine tutted, narrowing his eyes at Paul. "No one suspects a thing."

Both on the plane, flying from their training ground to Ekaterinburg. Paul skimming his finger over his tablet, reading a bit about the place they were going. Antoine's head against his shoulder, his hand creeping to, and resting on Paul's arm. A minute, before Paul linked their fingers together. The motions quiet and secret and only for them.

Not that he cared if anyone knew - but if drawn on it, Paul would said that he'd given the world enough of himself- hairstyle, swag, play. 

They didn't need to know this part of him, of himandAntoine. And he was sure that the team didn't know about them - as sure as he knew that Antoine wasn't Uruguayan.

And as sure as he knew Antoine couldn’t even spell Uruguayan.

***

After Salat al-maghrib, the evening prayer, Paul didn’t get up and roll up his prayer mat immediately.

Still seated, his mind and body stilled with the tranquility of the ritual. Enjoyed the curve of time for peace and reflection before he opened his eyes and senses to let the world in. 

As much as he liked praying with other Muslims on the team, there was something affirming going through the ritual of prayer alone and away from everyone at times. He’d be with the team and the rush of the World Cup soon enough. 

For a few minutes, Paul beyond thought and self and just _being_. 

With Allah, with himself and this parcel of time and _thanks_. 

He rolled up his mat and put it away, preparing himself for the evening ahead. 

Smiled at the soft knock on the door.

“Come,” he called out, his heart lifting at Antoine’s head popped around the door.

“Are you sure? You haven’t cut your prayer short, have you?”

“No. Never. ”

“Oh,” Antoine said, slipping in, kicking the door behind him. “You’re too good, I know I would.”

“I know you would, too.”

Antoine rolled his eyes, throwing himself across the bed. “Yes. Well, whatever,” he gestured to Paul, doing a childish flop of his hand, patting the space beside him. His face scrubbed fresh and pinkened from his bath, his hair dark from the dampness of his shower. “Come here, please.”

Smiling, Paul did.

“We have ten minutes,” Paul said, looking at the oversized watch on his wrist, “before we have to meet the team downstairs.”

“Fine,” Antoine grinned. “I’ll only kiss you for five minutes then.”

And he did.

And because he could be dutiful when he wanted, dragged them downstairs for supper and a talk.

***

“Any order of business?” this was Raphael Varane at the end of the talk. As much as the world’s press might have slagged off Deschamps - especially the English- they didn’t know what a good coach he was. He wasn’t one to rebuild a wheel, and wanted everyone to feel comfortable, and take ownership of the process.

For instance, each player had to give a talk. It could be about anything, and to make it interesting, people were asked to send in pictures that struck them throughout the day, no matter how mundane or fantastic. Instead of people seated in stiff chairs, they were sprawled in comfortable sofas, or cushions on the floor. They were encouraged to wear their own clothes instead of the French gear.

Today, Raphael stood up, leading the talk.

His French tinged with the Spanish of Madrid, which made him exaggerate his zs. The talk wasn’t necessarily about tactics, even though they might have crept in. It was... a strange kind of talk when he had to present on the whiteboard what everyone was thinking about during the week, and at the end of the talk, the speaker revealed a theme.

“No, okay, so we go to this week’s theme,” he smiled. “Any guesses as to what it is?”

“Vodka?” Olivier piped up hopefully.

“Cake?” Samuel’s tone almost pleading, causing the team mates around him to half titter, half _awww_. His sweet tooth his undoing, and only for the sake of the World Cup he avoided pastries as best as he could.

“Statues,” Hugo’s comment gentle. “There are a lot of them here.”

“Voila,” Raphael began, fiddling with the remote in hand, as he pressed the button. The action leading to gasps and laughing.

Paul’s eyes widening at what he saw there. He thought they’d been subtle - but obviously not. Photos of him and Antoine looking at each other. Laughing with each other on field and off it. Their arms on and around each other, their eyes never leaving the other’s face. Be it in the team kit -from training, to home and away- the locations changed, but never each other.

“Oh,” Antoine said, pushing himself in a seated position. “I thought we were subtle,” he said.

“As much as you’re Uruguayan,” Paul scoffed.

“But,” Antoine said, clapping his hand against his forehead, his eyes wide and blue with earnestness. “But I am.”

Paul laughed, and because like smoke and coughs, love was hard to hide, he embraced this moment with Antoine.

“You aren’t,” Paul said, “but you’re mine, anyway.”

Antoine grinned then, never bashful around Paul, and now that the secret was - well -never a secret, he replied. “I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alas, I still side eye Greizmann for... everything, really, but I am in service to the prompt, and every OP over that kink meme comm has been lovely so far. Thank you!


End file.
